They give Him freely all they can, They give Him clothes and food; In this rejoicing, that the Man Is not ashamed they should. Enough He labours for his hire; Yea, nought can pay his pain; The sole return He doth require Is strength to toil again. And this, embalmed in truth, they bring, By love received as such; Their little, by his welcoming, Transformed into much. X. PILATE'S WIFE. Strangely thy whispered message ran, Almost in form behest! Why came in dreams the low-born man To part thee from thy rest? It may be that some spirit fair, Who knew not what must be, Fled in the anguish of his care For help for him to thee. But rather would I think thee great; That rumours upward went, And pierced the palisades of state In which thy rank was pent; And that a Roman matron thou, Too noble for thy spouse, The far-heard grandeur must allow, And sit with pondering brows. And so thy maidens' gathered tale For thee with wonder teems; Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale Returneth in thy dreams. And thou hast suffered for his sake Sad visions all the night: One day thou wilt, then first awake, Rejoice in his dear light. XI. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. The empty pitcher to the pool She bore in listless mood: In haste she turned; the pitcher full Beside the water stood. To her was heard the age's prayer: He sat upon the brink; Weary beside the waters fair, And yet He could not drink. He begged her help. The woman's hand Was ready to reply; From out the old well of the land She drew Him plenteously. He spake as never man before; She stands with open ears; He spoke of holy days in store, Laid bare the vanished years. She cannot grapple with her heart, Till, in the city's bound, She cries, to ease the joy-born smart, "I have the Master found." Her life before was strange and sad; Its tale a dreary sound: Ah! let it go--or good or bad, She has the Master found. XII. MARY MAGDALENE. With eyes aglow, and aimless zeal, Throughout the land she goes; Her tones, her motions, all reveal A mind without repose. She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, By madness tortured, driven; One hour's forgetfulness would be A gift from very heaven. The night brings sleep, the sleep distress; The torture of the day Returns as free, in darker dress, In more secure dismay. No soft-caressing, soothing palm Her confidence can raise; No eye hath loving force to calm And draw her answering gaze. He comes. He speaks. A light divine Dawns gracious in thy soul; Thou seest love and order shine,-- His health will make thee whole. One wrench of pain, one pang of death, And in a faint delight, Thou liest, waiting for new breath, For morning out of night. Thou risest up: the earth is fair, The wind is cool and free; As when a dream of mad despair Dissolves in ecstasy.